Beware what is converging
In the dripping wax
Over a bowl of holy water:
A missed attack.
He pricks your middle finger
With a heated knife.
The blood gathers to a point.
Men can get bespelled to be dull,
To work harder without wonder,
Lulled to a life half-lived
Unless the local healer breaks
A crystal and the curse inverts.
He looks into the glazed mirror
Under yourself and myself.
Poets open doors to a deluge.
The albularyo does the same.
Be gracious as you touch his hand.
He will take risks to bring you back.
The cosmos is his hour.
Listen to your loss and take note:
Your task is to pray (and pay)
And oblivion will make your enemies moot
They will be hung in a dark room
Blasted with heat dripping blood.
They will die daft
In molten shudders like vermin.
But beware the albularyo's price.
Pain begets pain and hell
Always requires a sacrifice.
prompt: homophonic translation of Jacob Groot's "Lokaal Heelal." Albularyo is a Filipino term for local healer. Let's just say the original is a hundred times better than this.